


Between a Wall and a Hard Place

by the_ragnarok



Series: Happy Endings [9]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Age Play, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-24
Updated: 2011-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:31:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur pretends to be Eames' 16-years-old boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between a Wall and a Hard Place

"So you need me to pretend to be your boyfriend," Arthur says.

Eames nods glumly.

"You do remember that I am, in reality, your boyfriend, right?" Unlikely that Eames forgot, considering the enthusiastic welcome he's given Arthur when he walked in.

"Spouse, actually," Eames says, because he has to be pedantic about the most random things. He sighes and smooths a hand over his hair. "It was Osoba's idea."

Osoba's decent enough. They've worked with her before. Arthur trusts her, to a point. That point does not extend to revealing relationship information, but that's not saying much. "All right. Explain this to me again, from the beginning. I go in as your boyfriend.... ?"

"Rather, you don't go in at all," Eames says. "You change outfits so you look like less of a professional – you remembered to bring a pair of your old jeans like I asked?"

Arthur rolls his eyes because yes, he actually _is_ a professional.

"You stay in the bedroom," Eames says. "You're our backup if there's trouble. If all goes smooth, stay there and look fuckable."

The only reason he lets Eames get away with saying shit like that is that the dickhead thinks it's a compliment. "And if they burst into the bedroom, I pretend to be harmless and terrified?"

"And sixteen years old," Eames says. At Arthur's glare he says, "Well, it's not necessary. But it would add to the artistic integrity."

"You just want me to pretend to be a quivering virgin again." Eames is only three years older than Arthur, but his ill-fitting clothes add about five years and Arthur's long hair subtracts about four.

Eames shudders melodramatically. "Perish the thought. I assure you, attractive as you were in your initial state, you've only improved since."

"Eames," Arthur says, patient, "nobody asks people they're sleeping with to pretend to be sixteen for artistic reasons." But he lets it go for now, asks instead, "Who exactly are we expecting?"

Eames counts on his fingers. "Osoba, obviously. Kinsey, he's the newbie. On our side, but he's not in on the details. Barrett and Kaye."

The latter two are the ones to look out against. Arthur frowns. It's three against two, nominally, but Osoba's not much for combat and God only knows if they can trust Kinsey not to panic. Eames can probably hold his own, but Arthur likes their combined odds better. Eames is being cautious. Arthur approves of this. "How long have we got?"

Eames checks his watch and frowns. "Twenty minutes. Go change, darling."

Arthur twists a smile at him. "Better make it look good," he says, and draws Eames closer to him.

He has a moment to catch a glimpse of Eames' feral smile before he fastens his mouth to Arthur's neck, sucking, just a hint of teeth. Arthur grinds against him, just a little, just enough to get the both of them smelling faintly of sex.

Then Arthur goes to change, hanging his suit carefully in the closet. Hopefully Barrett and Kaye won't look in there, or if they will, they'll assume it to be something of Eames'. The clothes Arthur brought with him are his old work clothes, a worn ratty t-shirt and jeans so tight he can barely squeeze into them. They weren't this tight a year ago, but then Arthur gained some muscle since then.

He'd been active, always, but going to the gym twice a week isn't the same as being pursued by people using deadly force twice a week. Whatever else Arthur can say about life as Eames' partner, it keeps him on his toes.

Arthur knows their visitors have arrived by the banging on the front door. He hears Eames greeting them inside, identifies Osoba's laughter at something somebody says. He doesn't know Kinsey's voice well enough to recognize it yet, but he hears a young man talking over Kaye's mellow alto and Barrett's rumbling bass, so unless they brought backup –

Kaye shoves the bedroom door open. "Who the fuck are you?" she asks.

Arthur knows Kaye – her voice and her face – from the intel Eames sent him. If everything in his prep work is correct, then Kaye should have no clue who Arthur is. "This is my room," he says, opting for sulky because he can probably do _too dumb to be terrified_ more easily than _shaking in my boots_.

"Really," Kaye says, raising an eyebrow. "Hey, Barrett, look here. Eames has company."

"How rude of us to interfere," Barrett says, appearing at the door. He's a huge man wearing tiny John Lennon glasses, a thigh holster peeking from where his trench-coat slid aside, no doubt on purpose. Frankly, Arthur's more worried about Kaye, with her quick, assessing eyes.

Eames joins in, shoving them aside none too gently. "I like company. You got a problem?"

"Well, I don't know," Kaye says. "Barrett, do we have a problem?"

"I don't see a problem," Barrett says, "as long as everyone's where we can keep an eye on them."

"Whatever," Arthur says, walking out of the room before Eames gets it into his head to do something stupid. In the living room, Osoba grins at him briefly before her face smooths back into a blank expression. Kinsey looks apprehensive. Arthur slouches into a corner, glaring at everyone indiscriminately.

The discussion isn't exactly thrilling, being exactly the same as the ones they have before each job they take on. Arthur doesn't even have to simulate boredom. Eames and Kaye argue about the pay, about the best way to get to the mark, about the fucking color of the fucking tiles in the first level.

Then Kaye says something about the client's wife, and Eames snaps out, "I don't do that."

There's a resounding silence in the room. "I won't do real-world crime, either," Osoba says.

"I don't recall asking you." Kaye doesn't take her eyes off Eames. She doesn't need to. Barrett has a gun trained on Osoba. Kinsey's shaking, but still other than that. "Now, Eames, we're being reasonable. We take the mark's wife, we trade her back for the information we want and a little extra cash, bam. Everything's solved."

"I don't think so," Eames says, softly. Arthur tries not to tense too visibly, tries to at least make it look like he's cowering rather than waiting for his cue.

"Oh? Well, I do." Kaye pulls out a gun. Arthur grits his teeth, holding back. _Wait for it..._

Eames blinks and snaps his fingers. He's going to say something glib next, Arthur knows, but he has no idea what it is because he's too busy launching himself at Barrett. There's a satisfying _crack_ when Barrett's head meets the wall. The fuckhead wasn't even looking at Arthur.

By the time Arthur has Barrett secured, Eames has Kaye secured, pinned to the wall with her hand twisted behind her back. Arthur darts into their bedroom to get the functional handcuffs and helps Eames tie her to the chair.

She's spitting mad, cursing and twisting. It's a relief when Osoba fills a needle with sedative and puts her out of their collective misery.

Arthur stretches and shakes his head. "All right," he says. "How are we going on from here?"

Kinsey mutters something incoherent. Arthur looks at him and remembers the concept of manners. "Oh. Hi, I'm Arthur." He offers Kinsey his hand. Kinsey looks at said hand, turns chalk-white and faints, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

"You've got a bit of blood there, love," Eames says, helpfully handing Arthur a wet handkerchief that Arthur accepts with gratitude.

Between the four of them (Kinsey comes to shortly, blushing and quiet but not as useless as could be expected), they come up with a rough plan. Osoba and Kinsey are sent to arrange for Kaye and Barrett's unfortunate capture, while Arthur and Eames stay here and clean up both the physical evidence and the data trail.

That's done with quickly enough, and then Arthur's starting to change back into his own clothes when he feels Eames' hand, warm on his back through his thin shirt.

"Don't," Eames says. "Keep them on."

"I didn't realize you missed seeing me look like a minimum wage slave," Arthur says, but he packs his suit neatly rather than wearing it because, well, Eames asked.

Eames, because he's actually capable of acting like a fucking professional every now and then, does not molest Arthur even once on their way to the train station, nor on the actual train, nor on the taxi to the hotel where Arthur has rooms reserved for them.

So it's actually something of a relief when Arthur closes the door to (nominally) his room behind them and Eames pulls him into a deep kiss.

Arthur relaxes into it, winding his arms around Eames, laughing a little as Eames turns them around so Arthur has his back against the wall. "What are you _doing_ ," he says – it really isn't a question at all – shoving Eames away playfully.

Eames stays shoved, which Arthur disapproves of, so he pulls him close again. "No, what," he says into Eames mouth. "Do you want something?"

Eames' hands tighten on Arthur's ass by way of reply. Arthur grins and does his level best to shove his tongue down Eames' throat. Eames' hands migrate to his front, unzipping and peeling off his jeans. Arthur pushes up and forward with his thighs, to show willing.

Then Eames pulls back, bracing himself on one hand. Arthur turns his head and plants a kiss on Eames' wrist, just because he can. With his other hand, Eames traces a line down Arthur's face.

"Look at you," Eames says, and it's full of wonder and affection to a degree that generally makes Arthur threaten violence, but he thinks he can allow it now. Just for today. "I do so love to see you take down men twice as large as you, darling."

"Is that a hint?" Eames is hardly twice as big as Arthur, but they can pretend if it makes Eames happy.

"Not today," Eames says, pulling Arthur's pants down. Arthur toes his shoes off to be helpful, then starts working on Eames' belt.

"So today we... what?" Belt discarded, Arthur pulls Eames' shirt off before that patterns gets permanently burned into the back of his eyelids. If any image is going to do that, Arthur prefers it to be of Eames' naked chest, thank you very much.

Eames just stands there, taking Arthur in. "You're not wearing pants," he says, slightly dazed.

"Yes. You just took them off me." Honestly, some of these days Arthur is sincerely worried about Eames' short-term memory. It's like he's a goldfish.

A really hot goldfish, though.

Eames rolls his eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry. Shall I say _underwear_ , then? _Gone commando_?" The latter in a perfect imitation of Arthur's voice.

"Well, not unless you want me to understand what you're saying." Arthur takes this opportunity to shed his t-shirt. "Also, yeah, your point? I can't wear underwear under these jeans."

"To think I never realized that fact," Eames murmurs. He leans closer, enough that when he talks Arthur feels Eames' breath on his face. "That's a bloody tragedy."

"I'll go around without underwear if you want," Arthur offers. He does it half the time anyway, for comfort or just because it's difficult to be caught up on your laundry when you're running from place to place all the time. Most of his clothes are dry-clean anyway.

"Not all the time," Eames says, practically into Arthur's mouth. "That would entirely spoil the effect of surprise."

"Right," Arthur says, after kissing Eames for a minute or two. "Go around without underwear, not tell you about it. Got it."

Eames gives him a frustrated look, but it's the fun kind of frustrated.

Arthur grins at him. "Those are your parameters I'm working with. I'm only doing what the job requires." A memory strikes him suddenly, and he frowns. "Hey. Is this a good time to ask why you wanted me to pretend to be fifteen?"

"Sixteen," Eames says, severely. "Don't make me more of a pervert than I am." He shifts until he's leaning over Arthur, heavy and companionable. "You don't have to," he says, quieter, and kisses Arthur for a long time.

It takes Arthur a moment to recover from the kiss, and then he says, "So, give me the script. I'm sixteen, I've never done this before?"

Eames' hands are on his sides, stroking, warm and certain. "No," Eames says. "You're sixteen, and you're a hellion. You get into ten types of trouble before breakfast." He nips Arthur's ear. "Can't have been too far from reality, in any case."

"Fuck you." Arthur snorts, good-natured.

Eames ignores this. "You've done all sorts of things with all sorts of people, and now you want to do this with me."

Arthur waits a little, but that appears to be it. "I'm a sixteen year old slut," he says, trying the words on for size.

Eames' arm snakes around his waist. "If you want to be."

"I could probably be a sixteen year old slut." He probably would have been, given better opportunity. Given Eames. "Now suck my dick, and if you're good, maybe I'll let you fuck me."

"I do enjoy your high standards," Eames says, sinking to his knees in front of Arthur, and that's one view that never fails to get a rise out of Arthur, as well as selected pieces of Arthur's anatomy.

Over time, Eames' preparedness, as expressed by the constant presence of lube somewhere about his person, had mutated from making Arthur slightly apprehensive to being something Arthur can't imagine having ever lived without.

Eames' multitasking skills, however, are something Arthur always appreciated. Because of this, there is absolutely nothing to discourage Arthur from making his enjoyment of this – Eames' mouth on him, Eames' fingers slipping into his ass – both vocal and loud. He's not sure what, exactly, about this constitutes pretending to be a teenager, but Eames isn't complaining and Arthur doesn't see a need to be churlish.

There's nothing about being sixteen that Arthur misses, least of all being fumbling and inexperienced. He much prefers the way things are now, how Eames' fingers slide into him effortlessly, smooth and efficient as Eames picking a lock.

Hm. Now there's a thought Arthur likes. Perhaps he should share it. "Your fingers," he says, his voice doing the weird breathy thing it does sometimes. "You're good with them. I like that." He also likes the noise Eames makes around his cock when he says that, but if he goes into all-out dirty talk Eames isn't likely to make it to the actual fucking.

As it is, Eames lets go of him entirely too soon, grabbing Arthur's ass and hiking him up. Arthur grips Eames' shoulders and winds his legs around Eames' waist, holding on. "I could probably keep myself up, just like that," he says, squeezing his thighs to illustrate the point.

"Are you genuinely trying to kill me?" Eames is panting, Arthur notes with satisfaction. "Actually, if you are, go ahead. I'm not likely to find a more pleasant death any time soon." Arthur dislikes Eames being morbid. He bites Eames' neck hard in retaliation. "Objection noted," Eames murmurs, and fucks into him properly.

Arthur lets his head roll back, closing his eyes and sighing softly. Eames is thick and solid inside him, hot and heavy around him, and Arthur basically wants this to last forever. "Can you hold on?" he says, quiet, his voice strange among the sound of heavy breaths and soft moans.

Eames stills. He trails his clean hand, shaking, through Arthur's hair. "For how long?"

"Until I come." Arthur doesn't open his eyes, doesn't want to see Eames' reaction for once.

Eames kisses him, slow and thorough until Arthur's squirming. "Best try to make you come quickly, then," he says, wrapping a firm hand around Arthur's cock.

"Yeah," Arthur says, voice small and unsure, and this is the only thing today that even remotely puts him in mind of being sixteen. "Do it, fuck me, make me come."

It's the change of pace as Eames' thighs snap forward, driving him into Arthur, that makes Arthur come. That and the press of Eames' hands on his shoulders, hard and unforgiving. Eames thrusts a few more times, enough that Arthur's starting to feel uncomfortable before Eames presses deep and stays there, leaning his damp forehead against Arthur's shoulder.

"Good?" Arthur asks, carefully unwinding himself from around Eames.

Eames nods into Arthur's shoulder, then kisses it. When Arthur goes to sprawl on the bed, Eames follows, pressing his back into Arthur's chest and pulling Arthur's arm until it's draped over him. Arthur kisses the back of his neck.

They're drifting off for a while before Arthur says, "If there's a conclusion to this, is that we shouldn't let me pretend to be anything."

"Whyever not?" Eames pushed back into Arthur until Arthur tightens his hold. "You did perfectly fine in both situations."

Arthur decides to let go of the boyfriend plan, because 1) everything did work out in the end and 2) it was a stupid plan to begin with. "How was that anything like teenage behaviour?" Arthur asks.

Eames is quiet for a moment. Arthur thinks he may have fallen asleep before Eames turns in his arms and rubs his cheek against Arthur's. "My fault, I'm afraid," Eames says. "I failed to specify the correct parameters, you were quite right."

Arthur waits, because there's no point in pushing Eames about things like this. After a few minutes, Eames says, "I realize that I'm being utterly silly, mind you. But at times, I wish I could've gotten to you first. I don't mean to your arse." Eames smooths his hands over said ass, possibly to prevent it from feeling neglected. "Or to any of your private bits. To you, before anyone had the opportunity to ever do anything unpleasant to you."

Eames wraps his arms around Arthur. Arthur's pretty sure he's supposed to be making fun of Eames right now, but he can't bring himself to do that. "And maybe I just wanted to pretend, for once, that I did. Get there first, I mean. All I wanted you to do was not contradict me."

There are at least five glib replies Arthur could make to this. All of them refuse to leave his mouth, and Arthur has no idea what else he can say to this. He kisses Eames, then, because that's generally a well-received response.


End file.
